Control
by GranddaugtherOgg
Summary: UPDATE: Added a few crucial sentences here or there because I felt that they were needed. You love a morning cigarette. Death is fiercely opposed to your smoking habit because he sees it as deadly. Meanwhile, Strife indulges your little vice, being the oversized brat that he is. Death confronts you and a session of painful disciplining ensues. But it's all well - because deep down


You woke up to the pitter-patter of raindrops staining the window.

The skies seemed low and woollen grey, as it happens in March on planet Earth.

It was on days like this when the light was dull and the wind carried a certain dampness – that you craved a morning smoke.

It just tasted richer. There was something special about filling your lungs with bluish vapour, mixed with all that moist that hung in the air.

You untangled from the duvet and sat up, trying to be as silent as possible. Your companion was still asleep.

A huge, motionless silhouette, lying on his back with arms neatly folded across his chest. Like a dead pharaoh.

Kinda spooky, if you had to be frank about it. You've never, ever seen a human being rest like that.

You surveyed Death with a loving glance.

Many a thing he did spook you out. There were as numerous that made your heart aflutter. It all evened out in the end.

You stood up. You put on that oversized old T-shirt which technically served you as a nightgown.

Technically, because D would strip you of it more often than not these days (or rather nights.)

Still, the rag proved handy when you had to go to the loo. Or grab a gasper.

Flashing Strife, who slept down the corridor would be hilarious. But you had a hunch that the gunslinger would never let you live it down.

You went down the staircase, holding breath every time the wood creaked under your feet. You reached into the pocket of your coat hanging in the hallway.

Fished out a crumpled pack of Lucky Strikes and a lighter.

This was supposed a top secret operation. Last time Death saw a cig in your mouth, he just yanked it out.

„Don't tell me what to do!", you snapped then, irked at such a blatant disregard of your wishes.

You knew well that there's an authoritarian streak to him, but jeez.

Death bent down so much that those long, stiff strands of black hair brushed your face.

His lips formed a firm line, that flaming stare of his was piercing. It bore into your skull like a drill.

„I can see your lifespan dwindling _right before my eyes. _I will not stand for that."

He was right, of course. In a way. But his despotic demeanour only rekindled the fire of defiance that burned within you.

The entrance door squeaked when you pushed it. You sat on the doorstep and smelled moist that filled the air.

Lighting a cigarette under drizzle was no small feat, but you managed it somehow. Practice makes perfect.

You inhaled your cancer stick – boy, it tasted good - and watched the smoke float away in milky squiggles.

There was a blunt „thump!", as if something rather large fell from the nearest window.

Not fell; rather landed in a controlled fashion. You didn't have to look to know what it means.

„He's really gonna give it to you this time," said a low, husky voice. Smile laced the words.

„He's not the boss of me." You took another smoke halfway out of the pack. „Want some?"

„That's why I'm here, princess", replied Strife, turning that yellow stare towards you.

You reached out with the Strikes, he snatched the cig with his teeth and slid it out of the pack, you gave him spark.

That sequence of moves was your little _pas-de-deux._ Practiced many times, polished to effortless perfection.

You turned the spiky-haired one into a smoker.

He was a graceful one, too. He was graceful with everything. That was part of his charm; how easily he took to new things.

You liked watching him smoke. He held the cig between his thumb and forefinger, threw his head back and exhaled abruptly through those prominent nostrils.

It made him look like an enraged cartoon bull. You giggled. Strife's lips curled up, his canines glistened.

Maybe you laughed a little too loud because soon there was another thump.

_Fucking Horsemen,_ you thought lazily, _jumping from first-floor windows like it was nothing._

„You are incorrigible." It was more of a sigh than an accusation.

Death's voice sounded like pure gravel. It always got a little deeper after a full night's sleep.

It made the little hairs on the nape of your neck stand on their ends.

And here came the owner of that incredible voice that did things to you; tall, hulking, messy haired and all-around crabby.

You've noticed that he put on some pants – thank God - but that was it.

„Hi there, darling, " you said, a cig hanging from the corner of your bravely smiling mouth.

„Don't you darling me", he drawled. Strife made a funny face – and covered it with one hand when Death's head snapped his way.

You almost heard the tendons in his neck go _boing!_

„Why do you indulge this stupidity? Don't you care whether she lives or dies?"

„Man, you're seriously overreacting here", stated Strife and let out another smoke ring.

Death let out a nasty sound - half a growl, half a hiss. You felt a little creeped out.

„Spit this thing out and follow me," he ordered. And then marched back to the house without even looking in your direction.

You gulped.

„Oooh, someone's in trouble!" said Strife with a singsong voice.

„You smoked right here with me!"

„ Well yeah, he can't _discipline_ me, now can he?" The sharpshooter's smile was as sweet as honey.

He clearly enjoyed your distress, the bastard.

„Fuck you, Strife", you said heartily, dropped your cig, stomped on it and entered the building.

_Discipline_. There was something about that word that made your insides tingle.

You walked the stairs, trying to analyse that fluttering knot in your stomach.

Was it fear? Were you really afraid of what Death would do?

What _would _he do?

He left the door to your shared bedroom wide open, which spared you the small agony of knocking.

You crossed the doorstep and stood there, not sure what to do.

Death was sitting on the edge of the bed, his long legs wide apart, large hands pressing into his thighs.

He looked as ominous as possible.

He lifted his chin and made the smallest gesture, beckoning you to come near him.

You made a few tentative steps and froze in place, as if your legs turned into half-cooked spaghetti.

„Closer." That was but a whisper.

You somehow made another step and stumbled, falling forward. He caught you – as he would always do.

It was not a tender grip. But it was a firm one.

„I really am in trouble, aren't I?"

A silent nod. Those eyes, fuck. There were burning your flesh apart from the bone.

You got miffed with his theatrics; angry even, because it got to you. He always got to you.

„What now?" you asked with a slight tremor in your voice. „Is there another sermon in check? Or are you gonna hurt me somehow?.."

Death's fiery eyes went wide. For a moment there he looked as if you slapped him.

„Do you really think that I would do that?.."

You felt a sour taste in your mouth. Of course he wouldn't. What were you thinking? Death was always good to you, even when he was rough.

You liked rough. You liked him inexorable, feral. But there'a whole world of difference between going rough and hurting someone.

„Well, not really…" you said tentatively, „But you're planning something. I can tell."

The Pale Rider's lips tilted up in a wicked grimace that technically counted as a smile.

„I'll tell you what's going to happen", he murmured. „I'm done with words. I'm going to put you over my knee and spank you."

„What?"

„That's right." His eyes locked in on yours. You felt as if air has been forcibly pressed out of your lungs.

„You insist on acting like a child, so I will treat you like one."

„You can't do this," you said with a small voice. „I am…not a child!…"

Death arched an eyebrow.

„Really. How old are you, girl?"

„You know damn well how old I am!"

„That's right." His voice dripped with sardonic glee. „When War was your age, we would only let him play with _sticks_.

When Strife was your age, he often cried in his bed and had to be cradled back to sleep. From my point of view you are _a child_."

„Wait a sec", you said. „Does it mean that you used to sing Strife lullabies?"

„Never mind him", he snapped. „Bend over."

That tingle in your insides turned into a goddamn hurricane.

„Death…" you breathed.

„_Bend over._ I'm not going to tell you twice."

You could have just say "no". You could have spin on your heel and leave that instant. He wouldn't force you. He never forced you.

Not in the traditional meaning of the word.

But you complied. Somehow further arguing with your lover over this proved to be impossible.

Your heart was pounding like crazy. Suddenly breathing became a difficult task that you had to consciously focus on.

There was this ugly little want inside you, a shameful flower of yearning that bloomed in the darkness when you weren't paying attention.

But Death could always see in the dark.

You leaned forward and pressed your upper body to his lap, shut your eyelids and took a shaky swig of air, while his hand lifted the T-shirt above your hips.

Cool air caressed your naked butt before his hand did.

Death traced your asscheeks with his long fingers – tenderly, oh, so tenderly, without any rush – and then he hit you.

You pressed your lips together to fight back a moan.

He spanked you again. And again. And a few times more. He had, as they call it, a heavy hand.

Soon you were trembling all over. Your breath has become erratic.

„What did I tell you about smoking?" His level voice came to you as if from afar.

„That I…shouldn't do it?" you gasped.

„So what do you say now?"

_You smug son of something unholy._

Another slap. The smallest wheeze escaped your lips. You were in pain.

„What do you say now?"

It was terrifying how calm and collected this man remained while doing this to you.

And titillating, too.

„I'm sorry", you whispered, teary-eyed.

His hand crept up your inflamed arse. You shivered violently.

„I can't hear you, girl."

„I'm sorry!" you cried with a breaking voice. „I'm sorry, Death!"

„Yes, you are." He flipped you face up; his eyes were wide and wild, that cruel smirk still curling his lips.

He looked mesmerising.

He sat you up, held your chin with two fingers and parted his lips with yours.

You let him do it; you welcomed his kiss with an eagerness that surprised even you. You felt utterly dazed. Subdued. Broken in.

You curled both arms tightly around his neck and just let go.

„Please promise me that you won't smoke anymore," Death murmured in your temple while holding you in a tight embrace.

You sat on his lap while he caressed your hair. You felt so loved.

„But what do I have to do for this to happen again?.." you whispered back.

How you adored that little raspy laugh of his.

„Invent another way to upset me."

„Death, darling. You've just made life so much more difficult for yourself."

"I know that."


End file.
